My Blues Ain't Yours

is a published poet and teaching artist. She is the author of two books of poetry, “Poetry Pulls Pain,” and Healing Her Hurts,” a collection of short stories and poetry. As well as “REGGIE ... [+]

Image of Poetry

My blues ain’t yours!
my blues be,
maybe more
but no less then
400 years of,
broken black bodies
buried, beneath and beyond,
these, beached shores, of America.

My blues be,
auction blocks
the lynch-men’s knot,
and masters cock,
crammed, inside of my,
13 year old, virgin vessel,
breeding, blue eyed, black skinned babies,
to be, bargained for, brought and sold,
but NEVER,
to belong to me.

My blues ain’t yours!
my blues be me,
proclamated, emancipated,
set free,
only to be enslaved again,
by segregation
Sanctioned but never receiving
40 acers and a mule,
Who had more rights than me
to work a piece of land,
within this land,
that won’t ever, belong to me.

My blues be,
no civil rights,
klan filled nights,
with picnic’s, parties and parades,
held in honor of,
three black boys hanging hung.
All because some sheriff caught ‘em,
making a pass,
or simply,
passing by, without pausing,
bow their heads,
or lower their eyes,
in the presence of,
Miss Ann.

My blues ain’t yours!
my blues be,
mass migration, thousands families determination,
to make a better life.
Moving up north way above the Mason Dixon line,
only to discover,
that Jim Crow lived there too,
he just
changed his name,

My blues be,
the sixties,
sitting and dying,
marching and dying,
standing up for,
and in the name of,
simply standing still,
and STILL,

My blues ain’t yours!

I’ve got those,
“the last to get hired, first to be fired,” blues.

“hell no, you can’t live here nigger,” blues

my blues be,
the Projects,
torn down, rebuilt, and given a new name,
low income housing blues.

My blues be,
Welfare, refined, reformed, and re-designed
to make my life a living hell, blues.

My blues be,
over crowded
under staffed schools,
with teachers teaching
everybody’s history,
but mine.

My blues be,
highway profiling,
with crooked cops and cranky judges,
packing, already over populated prisons.

My blues ain’t yours!
my blues be...........BLACK.